


Opportunity Cost

by ChibiSquirt, detour



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Captain America Steve Rogers/Modern Bucky Barnes, M/M, actual criminal Bucky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-11
Updated: 2018-03-16
Packaged: 2019-03-29 08:13:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13923027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChibiSquirt/pseuds/ChibiSquirt, https://archiveofourown.org/users/detour/pseuds/detour
Summary: It’s hard for killers to start over. But Buck comes to New York with a new name, a new identity, and and plans to discover who he is. It should be easy to be Buck the average worker, meeting this guy Steve to talk about baseball, even if it doesn't feel like it's enough. Between the secrets and the ghosts from his past following him around the city, it’s bound to get messy.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For the Shrunkyclunks Big Bang 2018. Art by [chibisquirt](http://chibisquirt.tumblr.com). 
> 
> What a great time to be alive. I had a great time collaborating with chibisquirt, and am so thankful to have art incorporated into the story!

He’s coming back to New York a new man. Literally. 

He has no idea who Buck Buchanan is supposed to be. He knows what he looks like, hair shorter, looser, his stubble now the start of a beard. Tends to wear loose-fitting clothes in flannel and denim, owns a single pair of boots. A hard worker who goes just by Buck, an old habit.

Buck barely recognizes himself as himself, which is kind of the point. 

It’s been three days, and his reflection still takes him by surprise when he catches it in a passing window. Paying attention’s kept him alive so far, so he reminds himself he’s nothing, to keep walking. 

The walk is another problem. He’s hesitant to start a pattern, but there are only so many ways to get from where he’s holed up to the job site. No one drives in the city, and the sidewalks feel too exposed. Already, he’s feeling like he’s being watched. 

Slowing down doubles the weight of eyes on his back. Buck takes a knee between parked cars to scan the street. There, a big guy straddling his motorcycle. Bike’s quiet, must be ready to follow on foot. No, Buck corrects himself. Making a call on his phone. 

He lets out the breath he’s been holding. The contact could be accidental— 

Except Buck recognizes the military set of his shoulders, the alert way he rests his weight back on the seat of the bike. Even the jacket and aviators are familiar. The guy was wearing the same gear on the shuttle from JFK when Buck came into the city two days ago. 

“Shit,” Buck says, under his breath, keeping his eyes on the target. The city’s too big for a coincidence. 

The guy laughs into the phone, nods his head yes to whatever’s being said, and then slides the phone into his pocket. Does up the jacket and starts his bike, finally, engine loud in the early morning. He swings out into the street without a look in Buck’s direction. 

He gets to his feet and tries to shake it off. The guy wasn’t a tail, he was a stranger. Buck wouldn’t be concerned with that, except if he’s the type of fantasize about a stranger’s broad shoulders. 

Buck tells himself he believes that. It’s not enough to quiet the part of him that wants to take care of it. But that part’s supposed to be dead. He tells himself to get over it. 

The delay makes him late for work, no one standing out by the front stoop as promised. He can hear voices inside through an open window so he heads up the stoop two steps at a time. 

Proctor the owner and Garcia the right hand man fall quiet as he comes in, the rest of the crew suddenly finding themselves needed on other levels of the house. 

“Morning,” Buck says. They’d taken down the hallway wall yesterday, opening up the sightlines from the front to the back of the rowhouse. It’s a better way to come in, he thinks, even if it’s allow a clear shot through to the kitchen. 

“You’re late,” Garcia says, after a glance at Proctor. “And you didn’t even bring coffee.” 

“Next time,” Buck says, shoving his hands in his pockets so he doesn’t accidentally throw a punch. That’s not the way this works, not anymore. 

“Next time don’t be late,” Proctor says shortly. “I’ll be working in the basement. Ed’ll show you the ropes if you want to work on the middle. Buck.” 

“Sure,” Buck says, following Garcia up to the middle floor. He knows he’s not wanted here, but it’s a favour Proctor’s wife owed him. Owed a dead man, really, but Buck’s the one around to collect. 

He spends the morning with a crowbar and a garbage bin, pulling the plaster off the walls in what’s going to be the master bedroom. 

It’s a big project, taking the four story building down to studs before building it back up. The client is so high-profile everything’s done through a numbered company, the perfect amount of anonymity. Proctor’s crew is large enough it’s supposed to take four, five months to complete. They’ve been working on it a while already, with the basement rental nearly done. 

When they break for lunch, Buck stands by the window to eat his sandwich. The street’s still lined with parked cars, most of them left from the morning. It shouldn’t unsettle him, but he can’t shrug off the feeling he’s being watched. 

He reaches down to grab his water bottle, looking back up to see the same fucking guy from this morning standing by someone's car. Same jacket but no hat, blond hair lit up by the sun. 

Buck has his water bottle raised halfway to his mouth when he stops to stare. Twice in one day. There’s no way this is an accident. 

“Hey man,” Garcia says, joining him at the window. “I been talking at you, you alright?” 

“Fine,” Buck says. He stays still, afraid to catch the guy’s notice. 

“What are you looking at, oh,” Garcia says, when he looks at the guy. He clears his throat. “He’s, you, ah, into that?” 

Buck blinks once, thinking about it. The guy could be a threat but is definitely attractive. And Buck is into that, in a way he’s never been able to be before. He relaxes his stance, turns his head towards Garcia. “Yeah, man. I’m gay.”

“Oh, cool, cool, my nephew is gay,” Garcia says, even as he clears his throat again. “So that’s great for you—do you know that guy?”

“Nah,” Buck says, forcing himself to be casual. He takes a sip of water, watches the guy get into someone’s car and leave. “No, just looking.”

“Sure, okay,” Garcia says. “Well, we’re gonna work on two this afternoon.”

“Great,” Buck says, even if the number of people around means he’s more tense than usual. He watches his back as he drags bins full of old lath and plaster to the garbage chute hanging out the window. 

Garcia’s harmless, a fifty-something Latino with a soft centre offset by the strength in his arms. He doesn’t mind babysitting Buck, ready with a laugh when another crew member asks him a question. They all seem to care for the work in a way Buck does not. 

At the end of the day Buck feels dirty and tired, gritty from plaster dust. He sets his gloves and tools on the oversized island left in the back of the house, following the others out. 

“Tomorrow at eight,” Proctor says, not looking up from returning the key to the lockbox. “Not after eight.” 

Buck bites down on what he wants to say and nods his head. “Of course, sorry.” 

“Good,” Proctor says, looking like he’d like nothing better than to tell Buck to eat shit and die. It makes him wonder what exactly Proctor’s wife told him to get him a job. 

Buck just starts walking, going east while Proctor’s company van heads west. He walks to the building he’s holed up in without thinking about changing his route. His place is defensible and quiet, a good enough base for a couple of days if he stays unnoticed. 

Over the next few days, he tries to stay unnoticed. He changes where he walks, staggers when he leaves. It must work, because he doesn’t see the blond or his motorcycle. 

But the feeling of being watched doesn’t go away. 

It just becomes part of his life, like the constant ache of a body unused to the physical work. He hasn’t had to do things for himself for a long time. Now he breaks his hands open hauling drywall, plywood, boxes of compound. At night, he’s too tired to do much to loosen up the stiffness in his shoulders. Sleeping on the floor doesn’t help either. 

It’s one of these mornings that he comes in still tense, working out his left shoulder and nearly clipping someone as he walks past and down into the basement. The crew’s split now, some fitting cupboards in the guest suite downstairs while others run plumbing and electrical for the new layout. 

“You can’t be here,” Proctor says, making Buck stop short by the entryway. 

“Why not,” Buck says slowly, shifting his weight to his back foot in case he has to make a quick exit. Proctor doesn’t know anything about who might be after him, but his mind still goes to the worst. 

Proctor steps forward, forcing Buck back out the door, onto the stoop. “The company’s sending someone to check on the work, and as far as they know you don’t exist.”

Buck smiles, because he  _ doesn’t _ exist, not really. “Okay?” 

“Just go get coffee or something, come back in an hour.” Proctor waves a hand to dismiss him, turning back to the house. 

“There’s a place two blocks west,” Garcia says, pointing with his clipboard. “Great breakfast bagel that won’t cost you twelve bucks.” 

“Okay,” Buck says, lifting one hand in thanks as he turns to go. He feels the lazy itch of curiosity, of what the company does, but he lets it slide off his shoulders. Buck can’t afford to care. 

He finds the place Garcia mentions, buys a bagel to go and sits on the curb between two parked cars to wait. It’s past the boundaries of Park Slope, enough that he looks charmingly disheveled, not dirty. 

New York is like a foreign country, for all that he grew up here. There’s so much less space, everything stacked on top of itself for maximum real estate. He’d give a tooth for the reassuring wastelands of paradise in Palm Beach. Then again, he’s not dead here. 

When he gets up, he notices eyes on him. A redheaded woman parked in a black Camaro, aviators pointed in his direction. One hand’s on the wheel, the other out of sight. She’s the kind of person he’d expected on his tail, not someone who wears his training on his shoulders like the blond does. 

Buck takes a step back onto the sidewalk, crumpling his wrapper in one fist—but she’s already turning away, watching the woman with a stroller down the street, the person walking the dog. She doesn’t look back. 

It took all of a second for her to undo him. Buck slouches, lifts one shoulder to help block his face, and drops his chin as he disappears into a cluster of pedestrians. Something feels wrong about retreating, but he has no choice . 

His hands don’t shake when he’s back at work, but there’s a buzz under his skin that won’t go away. It makes him drop a box he’s taking to the third floor, shattering most of the subway tile inside. 

Proctor takes too much pleasure in yelling at him for it, a look in his eye that says this favour to his wife isn’t worth all this trouble. That Buck isn’t worth it. 

It’s been a long time since someone spoke to him that way, since before the aliases stacked up alongside the felonies. 

Buck keeps his hands from curling into fists, imagining each of the ways he could make Proctor stop talking. It’d be satisfying, but Buck can’t lose this job. No matter how much he hates being weak. 

He stays still through it, waiting until Proctor's red faced and done before he moves. He finds a space Proctor isn’t and is silent the rest of the day. That isn’t unusual. Buck finds he tends towards quietness, but it takes on new implications after being reamed out. Guys in the crew watch him warily, like they’re waiting for him to finally lose his shit. 

With conscious effort, he relaxes his shoulders, makes a show of being fine. If they think he’s putting on a front, pretending Proctor didn’t get to him, they’ll stop looking so close. 

When quitting time comes, Buck still feels off. He goes back to his burrow but can’t settle, so he decides to strip it out and move on. He’s been in one place too long. 

There’s always another place to hole up, the next one on a corner further west. There’s more traffic here so the noise can’t be helped, but there’s a window that gives a decent view of the street. 

That first night the street noise keeps him awake, makes him reach for a gun he doesn’t have. 

At two he gives up sleeping, taking a seat by the window to look out over the street. The cell phone store across the intersection is closed and dark, but the Rite-Aid’s open and making up for it. 

Buck squints until the light softens into a hazy shape, still bright against the night. He’s tempted to grab his gear and go, but once he starts running he doesn’t think he’ll stop. 

He shifts his weight, leaning his elbows on the windowsill. This is probably a worse place than he had before. 

When he hears the motorcycle, he knows it is. 

“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” Buck breathes out. He presses one palm against the glass, blocking out the guy now parking his motorcycle. It doesn’t help, he can still picture him and his stupid broad shoulders. 

He lets out a sound that could be a whine, dropping his hand. It’s his fault, this time, since it looks like he’s chosen to hole up in his shadow’s own neighbourhood. 

The guy looks up like he’d heard it, curling his thumbs into the pockets of his jacket. He really is unfairly good-looking, even with an earnestness Buck tells himself is a problem. 

Buck’s still staring after him long after the guy goes inside a building across the street. He never does fall asleep that night. 


	2. Chapter 2

After two nights without sleep, Buck loses track of time and shows up early to the site. Proctor doesn’t say anything about it to him but also doesn’t notice Buck watching him open the lockbox. 

It’d come to him when he was doing push-ups in an attempt to tire himself out. The rowhouse clears out at the end of the workday and stays empty all weekend. If he gets the timing right, it’d be the perfect place to hole up. 

Buck doesn’t let the thought show on his face as he trails Garcia down to the basement unit. With most of the crew putting up drywall on the upper levels, he’s getting things ready down here for painting. 

It’s well designed, Buck thinks, vacuuming drywall dust from the floor. He’d be hard pressed to find a good angle to kill someone inside the unit, unless he was standing on the sidewalk outside. For once, his shoulders aren’t creeping up as he works. He might actually get some sleep tonight. 

After Garcia inspects the space, Buck gets handed a roller and a can of primer. It’s not hard, once he’s been shown what to do, but he’s a mess by noon, paint all over his hands and arms. 

He washes up the worst of it and slips out for a coffee. It’s self-preservation, the caffeine necessary to keep him going through the afternoon. He could fucking weep over the thought of coming back to the rowhouse tonight, of silence and a defensible position. 

There’s a coffee place down the block, a combination of warm hardwood and ceramic that no one from the crew would dare step foot in. It’s busy, in the way that no one’s really paying attention to anyone. It puts him on edge, but it’s only a coffee. 

He holds the door open for a woman leaving with her baby when he spots someone he—doesn’t know, not exactly, but it’s the blond from before. He’s in line for coffee, staring at the menu with some confusion. 

Buck hesitates. It’s a bad idea to be here, this close to someone who may or may not be finding him by accident, but he really wants the coffee. 

He takes a spot at the end of the line, right behind his big blond shadow. He stands there for a long minute, waiting for the guy to notice him. He’s not sure what would happen next, if he’d be cut down now or taken to a conversation he doesn’t come back from. 

But the blond doesn’t even seem to notice they’re so close, that Buck’s on top of him. He’s either the worst tail ever, or—

Buck takes one too many steps forward when the line moves, right into the guy’s back. It’s warm, solid, and Buck has to keep himself from leaning in. He maybe is more gay than he first thought, or that he’d ever allowed himself to be down south. 

“Oh, sorry,” the blond says over his shoulder. He’s focused on the phone in his hand, barely glancing back to see who bumped him. 

There would be some tell, Buck thinks, if he was the guy’s target, some hesitation. Instead, there’s nothing. It makes him angry, suddenly wanting to push. 

“My fault,” Buck says, then brushes his hand against the back of the guy’s arm, light enough that it could be an accident. It isn’t. 

“Sorry anyway,” the guy says again. This time he looks Buck full in the face, something like a flirty smile as he ducks his head. 

Buck smirks back slowly, face slow to fall into what used to be familiar. He shrugs one shoulder, going for the arrogance that served him well enough before. If the guy’s going to recognize him, he will now. 

They stare at each other and there’s nothing—other than a flush slowly spreading over the guy’s face. He turns back around to the barista and stutters out his order. For two coffees. 

Buck doesn’t let that discourage him, instead lets his elbow brush against the blond’s as he steps forward to give his own order and tells the barista he’s paying for it all. 

“You don’t have to,” the guy says, fumbling with his wallet to pay. 

“Consider it reparation for pain and suffering,” Buck says, even if the total makes his stomach lurch. 

The guy isn’t looking at him anymore, but the colour on his cheeks says he hasn’t forgotten. He stands beside Buck in silence as they wait, jerking forward as soon as the barista calls Steve for the order, two large and Buck’s small drip. 

The blond grabs his drinks and turns back to Buck. He’s got a look on his face like he’s going to deliver bad news: in a relationship, not gay, not interested. 

Buck raises his cup before the blond—before Steve says anything. “See you,” Buck says, and slips out the door. 

He knows Steve is watching him go, but this time, Buck likes it. It’s the first time he’s felt like himself since he came here. 

He heads back to the job site and tries not to wonder—but if the blond wasn’t sent here to find him, who is? 

* * *

He almost feels bad about abandoning the old neighbourhood, now that he knows his shadow’s been random. 

But the rowhouse is so much better on security, anonymity, and silence. He doesn’t even know if anyone lives in the house next door. 

From working on it, he knows where to stand to be invisible, where he can be safe. It makes his shoulders relax for the first time in weeks, since he left the beach behind. 

Buck takes his time wandering through the entire place, from the nearly complete basement to the bedrooms at the top. Satisfied, he retreats to the basement and the bathroom he’d marked out for tonight. Pressed into the corner, he sleeps well for the first time. 

It’s easy to get up the next morning, to clear out and be gone before the boss comes around. Proctor doesn’t look at him twice. 

Buck can feel something twisted inside relax. 

Today he’s sent to work on the top floor. It’s been closed in to create two bedrooms with ensuite baths, reworked from the cluster of small rooms it was before. 

The new drywall’s ready for priming, so he’s working with the sole woman on crew. She wears earbuds and sings softly to herself as she cuts in the corners, and doesn’t make near the mess Buck does. 

Two other guys are tiling the bathroom, laughing as they talk about the game last night. The morning is pleasant, and Buck doesn’t even mind being the one to trek down three flights of stairs to wash out the paintbrushes. 

“You catch the game last night, Buck?” Garcia asks as he’s standing by the utility sink in the basement laundry. It’s a new installation that Buck will take full advantage of that night to get clean. 

He keeps that thought off his face and turns to answer Garcia. “Not really into football.” 

“No, man, baseball,” Garcia says, making like he’s swinging a bat. “Figured you be a Mets fan like the rest of us.” 

“Haven’t thought about it,” Buck says, but it isn’t awful. Sports are a safe enough subject, even if his own experience is in betting, not watching. 

“Get out,” Garcia says happily, and spends ten minutes telling Buck why he should pick the Mets. It’s a comfortable conversation, one where Buck doesn’t say much but Garcia doesn’t notice. 

After everyone leaves for the night, Buck takes full advantage of the laundry sink. The water’s shockingly cold, but he can bend over the sink without worrying about what’s around him. Splashing water at his armpits, he goes back to the thought of baseball. The effort of finding a game might be worth the distraction.

He scrubs harder at the paint on his arms, working by feel in the dark. 

It’s been a while since he’s had a chance to feel clean. Without thinking about it, he dunks his head under the tap to slick his hair back in the old way. Water drips down his neck, the cold reminding him looking like that isn’t a good idea. 

He uses his shirt to ruffle his hair loose, baring his teeth at the faint reflection in the window. With the Mets hat he’d found abandoned upstairs, he’ll look like anyone else in a sports bar, safe enough to watch the game. 

“Get it,” he tells his reflection, and goes. 

There’s a likely spot a few blocks north, doors flung wide to take in fresh air. It’s the usual Brooklyn sports bar, exposed brick walls and real wood for the bar and tabletops. There’s enough people here that he can blend in, but not so many that he feels uncomfortable. 

Buck slips past a few guys gathered near the door, following the sound of the game from the TVs mounted overhead. He skirts the group of people at the bar and the ones crowded around the tables, ending up at a free corner of a big table near the door. It’s in view of three TVs and the exit, tall enough that he can lean forward and be comfortable. 

There’s baseball on all of the TVs, two with the Mets. It’s the bottom of the first, no score. They’re playing at the Jays, it looks like. Buck looks at the screen, lingers at the edge of the table, fights the urge to run the numbers. 

It’s what he wanted, but part of him isn’t satisfied. Before, he’d slide in, grab a drink, make friends. Talk someone into a bet. Hopefully leave before he got drunk or murdered someone. This doesn’t feel like enough—

“This is the guy,” he hears from someone to his left. 

Buck tenses, turning his head slow. The speaker’s a black man he doesn’t know, except for how Buck recognizes the way he sits on the stool. It’s as military as Steve, even if that connection is chance. 

Steve’s there too, on the man’s other side. 

“Hi,” Steve says, colour rising to his cheeks. He’s wearing a Mets hat too, elbows on the table to claim a square of space. 

Buck licks his lips, buying himself a second to think whether this is how it ends. He shrugs off that feeling and leans into it, leans into their space. “Steve from the coffee shop?”

“That’s me,” Steve says, somewhat sheepish. He raises one shoulder in a shrug and lifts his glass to drain it. 

“I’m Sam, the best friend,” the—Sam says, holding out his hand. “The second coffee, the other day.” 

“Ah, I wondered,” Buck says, shaking his hand. He rests his elbow against the top of the table to ground himself. It’s coincidence, that’s all. Steve and his friend Sam obviously live around here. “I’m Buck.” 

“Buck from the coffee place,” Sam says, leaning back in his chair and shooting a loaded look over to Steve. It makes Steve smile. 

“I, um, I should buy you a drink,” Steve says. “Since you got coffee?” 

“I wouldn’t say no,” Buck says. It’d be the only way he could afford to drink tonight, since coffee had wiped him out.

“Okay,” Steve says, and looks over at the bar. It’s busy but not as crowded as it was when Buck first came in. Steve looks at Sam, who sighs and gets up. 

“Beer all around?” Sam asks, not waiting for an answer. 

“So,” Buck says, watching Sam disappear in the crowd. “How is it I bump into you again?” 

“I sort of live around here,” Steve says. He settles back in his chair, glancing at Buck between checking on the score and keeping an eye on Sam. “You?” 

“I came for the game,” Buck says, unwilling to admit he sort of lives around here too. He can’t get over the feeling that Steve isn’t telling the whole truth here, even if he hasn’t been trailing Buck this whole time. 

“The game?” Steve frowns in confusion, like they aren’t in a sports bar right now. 

“I’m told I’m a Mets fan,” Buck says, choosing not to call Steve on his bullshit but looking pointedly at the TV. 

That makes Steve laugh. “Me too, actually.” 

“I should tell you something,” Buck says, leaning back onto his elbow. It puts a bit more distance between them, so Steve slides onto Sam’s empty stool to close it. He looks even better up close, Buck notices absently, even if he is getting drawn in. 

“Really,” Steve says. He doesn’t seem to realize that he’s leaning in the way Buck wants him to, or else he doesn’t care. 

“I don’t give a shit about sports,” he whispers, and Steve jerks his head back with a surprised laugh. Buck gestures two fingers to the space between them and then at the TVs. “I’m just here because it feels like something I’m supposed to do.”

“I thought I was the only one,” Steve says, still smiling. “Don’t tell Sam, he’s excited he found something for us to do, but I’d be just as happy at home with a book.”

Buck wrinkles his nose at that. He feels comfortable, for once, bold and earnest in a way he was never before. What he was before wouldn’t be here talking to someone as wholesome as Steve, so Buck wouldn’t change a thing. 

“You’re not a reader?” Steve says, eyes flicking over Buck’s face before he looks at the TV. 

“I have not read a book since high school,” Buck says honestly.

“People nowadays are heathens,” Steve says, covering his face with his hands. “You’re a heathen. Awful.”

“I am awful,” Buck agrees, and smirks when Steve looks at him. “And to think, if you stayed at home with a book, you would never have met me.”

Sam comes back then with beer, saving Steve from responding. He slides onto Steve’s empty stool, jostling him until he makes enough room that Buck can drag a stool in. They’re still crowded close around the corner, but Buck doesn’t mind as much as he thought he would. 

The beers have too much head, the drink itself a weak colour that looks almost green in the glass. He doesn’t say anything, just picks up his glass and takes a sip. It’s tasteless, which could be worse. 

“This is worse than last time,” Steve says to Sam, laughing as he sets his glass down. 

“We don’t all want fancy craft beer,” Sam says haughtily, taking a careful sip. He wipes the foam off his mouth and looks to Buck. “You?” 

“Well,” Buck says, hedging for time. He can’t read the conversation to know which side he should play. 

“Don’t scare off my new friend,” Steve says. “I need him.” 

Buck freezes at that, hand still around the base of his glass. He doesn’t know what it means, but it’s terrifying. 

“Wow, okay, guilt trip,” Sam says, and then really looks at Buck. He changes tack, softening his expression and putting more space between them. “No, it’s fine, he just has expensive taste.”

“I do,” Steve says mournfully looking into his glass. “I can taste that this is weak.” 

“Ha,” Sam says. He falls silent as a play goes on in the game, forgetting about the beer. 

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/152315641@N07/40808114272/in/dateposted-public/)

Sam talks a lot of shit about the game, talking mostly to the players and the refs. Steve acts like he cares but he doesn’t know any of the players’ names. 

It’s going well until Buck makes a crack about futures that has Sam looking at him more carefully, like Buck isn’t as harmless as he looks. 

Buck takes a drink of his beer, slow, before meeting Sam’s eyes steadily. He doesn’t want to make Sam more suspicious, even if he’s scrambling inside to think of a way to cover it up. 

There’s honesty, Buck thinks, and figures what the hell. 

“I used to run the books,” Buck says, meeting Sam’s eyes steadily. “Know a thing or two.” 

Steve stirs from watching a play, ignoring the tension. “That’s still illegal, right?” 

“Still?” Buck asks. 

“Steve,” Sam says, and elbows him in the arm. 

“I mean, it’s still illegal  _ in this state,”  _ Steve hisses, and elbows Sam back. “That’s all.” 

“Yeah, but I never said I did it here,” Buck says, eyeing Steve. If he’s here to take Buck down, he’s got the best act Buck has ever seen. A fact like that should have had him in cuffs—or at least treated a little differently. 

But they both let it lie, even if Sam asks him what he predicts the final score will be when they’re tied at the bottom of the eight. 

“Nine-seven, Jays,” Buck says randomly, just to see Sam narrow his eyes and turn back to the TV to watch the last of it. 

He smirks to himself, meeting Steve’s eyes as he turns to look to the people coming in the door. 

“Just like that?” Steve asks, leaning into Buck’s space on one elbow. Buck shrugs, but towards Steve instead of away. 

“I know a little,” Buck says, and when he guesses right, he tries to feel happy about it. 

“That kind of takes the fun out of it,” Sam says when the Jays score a double in the last inning. 

“Thanks for letting me crashing your night,” Buck asks, keeping his eyes on his empty glass. 

“We’ll see, if you keep ruining final scores,” Steve says. 

“You’re alright, man,” Sam says. “Besides, Steve’s been away. He could use more friends.” 

Buck chances a look up. “Even one like me?” 

“You aren’t so bad,” Sam says. He’s hard to read, but it doesn’t seem to be a lie. 

“Don’t I get a say?” Steve says mildly, before he turns this half- smile onto Buck, one that warms him down to his toes in a completely dangerous way. 

“No, you have bad taste in people,” Sam says, looking at Buck. “No offense, but he does. You’re alright with me, which means something.” 

“I have faith in them,” Steve corrects. 

Sam closes his mouth on whatever he was going to say, and goes to take the empty glasses back to the bar. He seems like a good person, which may make it a stupid idea to hang out again. 

“This was fun,” Steve says, shoving his stool in against the table when someone moves behind him. “I felt a little less pity than usual.” 

“I can work on that,” Buck says, tapping his thumb against the table. He’s not sure what makes him say it, maybe the part of him that thought it was safe to stay, to share some of his past. “Maybe tomorrow night, we can see tomorrow’s game.”

Steve draws back slightly, but it’s enough that Buck notices. 

“Oh, okay,” Buck fills in, feeling something nasty twist up his face. He knows he’s overreacting and slides off the stool, annoyingly still at eye level. “No problem. Thanks for the beer.” 

He slips through the crowd to the still-open doorway, making it to the cool air of the street before Steve catches up to him. 

“Wait, I’m sorry,” Steve says, pulling his hand back before he can touch Buck on the arm. “I’m just not used to—people.” 

“You, what, just back from overseas?” Buck asks. He shifts his weight to his back foot, imagining his own hang-ups are there to see, that he’s used to getting what he wants. 

“Kind of,” Steve says, shrugging one shoulder. “Haven’t been a civilian long.” 

“Well, good luck with that,” Buck says and turns to go, still stung by the abrupt brushoff.

“No, I mean, here,” Steve says, handing him a neat white card with a phone number on it. “I do want to hang out—maybe catch the game here again. I could use more friends.” 

Buck takes the card. It’s heavyweight cardstock and feels expensive, and who the fuck has cards these days? 

“Give me a call, okay?” Steve says. He turns back once as he goes back inside to his friend, a little smile on his face like he’s glad Buck’s watching him go. 


	3. Chapter 3

Two days later, the card’s worn soft around the edges in his pocket. Buck’s kept it with him constantly, afraid to leave it when he hides his stuff before shift start the next day. It’s potential in a three by two package. 

He’s yet to dig out the burner buried deep in his things. It’s been off since he left Florida, his—Proctor’s wife the only one with the number, the one to arrange this job for him. Since then he’s been afraid to even turn it on in case someone is piecing together his trail. 

Buck digs his fingers into his pocket to feel the edges of the card. Maybe it’s safe to use it now that he knows Steve wasn’t looking for him. Could be no one’s looking for him, and he might as well settle in. He’s at the start of something here, with a decent place to hole up, a job he doesn’t hate, maybe even a friend. It could be enough. 

Except the thought of that makes all parts of him tense up. 

Shaking the thought off, Buck steps into the house to start the day. There’s paint in nearly all the rooms now, other than what will be the master bedroom and bath. Apparently the colours the company picked weren’t okay with the actual client, so now one wall is red, one’s blue, and the rest are still white primer. 

Buck’s been cleaning the floors to prep for installation, but someone’s off sick. Proctor looks pained about it, but he motions Buck forward to the stack of underlay that needs to go down on the master level. 

He’s handed a nail gun and a box of cartridges, told to aim for the marks printed on the plywood as Garcia cuts it to fit. 

The nail gun feels right in a way Buck’s been missing. It’s heavier than a real gun, more awkward, but the grip fits into the hollow of his palm well enough. 

He gets a sense of when it’s running low on nails just before it does, loading a new cartridge one-handed. Garcia stops to watch him at one point when he sends an entire cartridge worth of nails down one side of the underlay in one smooth motion. 

“Found your calling?” Garcia asks, marking out pieces on the other side of the room. He’s cutting in around the walls and spaces for the air return. 

“Sure,” Buck says, focusing on his work. It’s funny that even after all he’s been doing to become someone else, a gun finds its way back into his hand. 

The last time—it’d been dramatic, him standing in the middle of swampland with his favourite P30L. In a preserve, sure, and safe on the boardwalk, but he’d whipped the gun into the sawgrass and didn’t even wince. 

It was him getting rid of that life, he’d thought, but maybe it was only a gun. 

Buck sets the nail gun down, working out the stiffness in his fingers. Even loaded with inch-long staples, he can see how easily it can turn into a weapon. The safety is a nuisance and so is the hose, but maybe if the target was close enough. He picks it up again, readjusting to the weight, and thinks he’d be better off just winging it at a guy. 

He stays with it until the end of the day, done the floor in the massive bedroom and just starting in the attached closet. The space is smaller but harder to work in, so he half-hopes whoever’s sick is back tomorrow. 

After the site’s locked up for the day, he takes a walk to a phone store to pick up a charger. He endures the salesman’s attempts to sell him a new phone and takes the charger to a coffee shop to boost his burner. 

It comes to life just before he’s done his coffee, screen comfortingly blue and blank when he finally dares turn it over. 

Buck types in Steve’s number on the flip phone’s keypad, hesitating over what to send before settling on something simple.  _ hey its buck _

_ Hi,  _ Steve sends, then quickly,  _ the Mets lost already, by the way _

_ yeah, sorry,  _ Buck types, wondering if that’s enough, but Steve’s reply comes in before he can worry about it. 

_ No problem. I’m actually out of town on business right now, can we get together when I’m back? _

_ sure,  _ Buck says, and looks at his phone. He shouldn’t keep the burner on in case someone tries to track it, but—he keeps it on. 

* * *

Steve does call when he’s back, interrupting Buck in the middle of nailing underlay in the bathroom. He sets the nail gun down and turns his head away when Garcia looks at him curiously. 

They make plans to meet at a bar Steve says he likes, one that’s better than the one from last week. Buck’s hesitant to believe him but that just makes Steve laugh. 

“I promise you’ll like it,” Steve says, voice warm and deep. 

“Sure,” Buck agrees and tries very hard not to read into it. Steve’s just his friend, a guy he met with an interest in baseball and beer. If Steve buys him a piece of pie tonight, Buck knows he’s found the American dream.

Buck tells himself he’s a new man when he shows up to Steve’s bar. It has the red brick and wooden bartop he expects, but the lights are low and the tables close. 

Steve’s at one against the wall, twisted in his chair to watch baseball on one of the TVs. It keeps his back to the bricks, protected, and Buck follows suit when he sits down. 

“Hi,” Steve says, brightening as Buck joins him. 

“Hey,” Buck says, fighting down the answering lightness he can feel in his chest. This is just a couple of friends hanging out, no reason for him to look at Steve’s nice shirt and think that’s on purpose. 

“Found it okay, I hope,” Steve says, nodding to the TV over his shoulder. “Thought you’d want a decent sightline.”

“I do appreciate a good sightline,” Buck says, rewarded with Steve’s pleased smile even if he’s talking guns more than watching the game. 

Steve asks how his walk was over was, actually interested, and complains about parking his motorcycle in the next breath. It’s reassuring. He’s too big, too obvious to be a decent assassin. 

Buck relaxes back into his chair. “No Sam?”

“He’s working,” Steve says with a shrug. His expression doesn’t change, no sign whether he thinks of this as friends hanging out or something else. 

“What kind of work is that,” Buck asks, keeping his tone level but interested. Casual enough, but he doesn’t expect much of an answer. 

“Consulting, we’re both in military consulting,” Steve says vaguely. “You?”

Buck doesn’t exactly believe him, but lets it go. It’s enough to know Steve has nothing to do with the reach of his previous employer. “I work on a construction site now, general labour. Not where I’d thought I’d be, but it’s alright.”

“Same for me.” Steve turns the beer menu around but doesn’t look at it. “Did you like what you did, before?”

“Those were less legal things,” Buck says. He eyes Steve’s menu and nods to the bar to change the subject. “You order yet?”

“No, let me,” Steve says, getting up when Buck agrees and coming back with a story about his first time experiencing jalapeño poppers. It’s hilarious, especially with Steve's good-humoured indignation that  _ no one told him. _

The beer comes before Buck can ask how someone gets to be Steve’s age without knowing about hot peppers. Steve’s taste in beer is decent, a rich amber colour with a touch of bitterness. It’s not what Buck would call fancy, but he’d been a whisky drinker before like everyone else was.

“So Yankees at Chicago,” Steve says. “Your pick?”

“Cubbies,” Buck says instantly, flicking his eyes to the game and then back to Steve. 

Steve looks expectant, eyebrows raised as he takes a sip of beer. 

Buck shrugs, feeling like he’s supposed to back it up. “Odds are against them to win but they’d take it back in the runline. Won’t lose by much.” 

“The run line,” Steve repeats flatly, and Buck remembers he’s supposed to have left the books behind. 

“Plus I hate the Yankees,” Buck says, relieved when Steve laughs. 

“That’s more like it,” Steve says and gets up to get an order of nachos. 

They talk about the game, Buck staying away from potential bets. He can’t stop dissecting plays for what if scenarios, talking up a few of the infielders that get the most action. Becoming a sports fan might have been a bad idea. 

This whole night is, really, because Buck can’t help staring. Steve licks his fingers after he eats a nacho and doesn’t even seem to notice that he’s doing it, focused on the game and whatever Buck’s talking about. 

And Buck can’t  _ stop  _ talking. He’s nervous, he realizes. It’s not a great feeling, so he cuts himself off and asks Steve what else he does. 

“That’s a loaded question,” Steve says, running his thumb against his teeth. “Can I say I’m still figuring it out? Things like working out count as working, according to a friend.”

“I’d agree,” Buck says hesitantly. Looking directly at Steve is like looking at the sun. He’s stupid attractive. 

Steve wrinkles his nose and smiles. “No escape from you either, so any ideas?” 

“I don’t do much,” Buck says. “Thinking about trying reading. Heard some things about that.” 

“Things about reading?”

“Sure.” Buck shrugs. “Maybe it’s changed over the years. Gotten better, somehow.”

“Maybe I can recommend some things. I’m working through this list of the most influential books since 1945 to see what I’ve missed—haven’t read yet,” Steve says, looking to the game over his shoulder. 

Buck isn’t sure if Steve’s watching him still, so he shrugs again and reaches for a spare nacho on his side of the plate. “Yeah, alright. You have a favourite?”

“Nothing off the top of my head,” Steve says, and then shakes off the teasing tone for something more serious. “I feel like maybe I need to clear things up from before.” 

“From what,” Buck asks slowly, working to keep his sudden tension off his face. Maybe he was wrong about Steve after all. 

“Well,” Steve says, sitting back in his chair. He’s out of the circle of light now, but Buck has a feeling he could be blushing. “The other night. I wasn’t sure what you were asking.” 

“When I wanted to hang out again,” Buck says leadingly. 

“Uh, yeah,” Steve says. He’s definitely blushing, rubbing a hand over his cheek like it’ll make it go away. “I think maybe I assumed something then, and it made you uncomfortable.”

“About me,” Buck says. He reaches for his beer jerkily. Steve has to notice he’s uncomfortable now, that he’s doing a shitty job of covering it up. Who knows what else he’s figured out. 

“About why you were being nice to me,” Steve corrects. He doesn’t seem any more comfortable with this line of conversation than Buck is, for all that he started it. 

“That was bad?” Buck says. He carefully takes a sip of his beer before setting it back down. His hands aren’t shaking but he clenches then into fists under the table anyway. 

“No, not at all,” Steve says. He makes a face and leans in a little. “I’m just suspicious when people are. Nice. Now.”

“Since you’ve been back,” Buck fills in. He relaxes a little with Steve’s admission, that it’s not Buck he’s concerned about. He can understand that feeling, since he’s in a similar spot of his own. 

“Yeah,” Steve says. “And it’s not that I didn’t want to hang out with you. Just that it’s a complicated thing.”

“Life is complicated,” Buck says, because his life is. Balancing work, his new identity and whatever this feeling he gets around Steve is. At least Steve isn’t trying to let him down gently. 

“You’re telling me.” Steve’s voice is soft. He sighs, this long, drawn-out sound that Buck can feel in his chest. 

“I am,” Buck says, and nudges his knee against Steve’s under the table. It could be an accident, except how Steve presses his knee back. 

“So maybe we can hang out again, with Sam or whatever,” Steve says, shooting a glance at the bar before setting his elbows on the table and leaning in. “There’s always baseball.” 

Steve’s phone lights up then, between their mostly empty glasses. They both glance at it. 

“Or maybe not with Sam,” Buck says, because he’d like to meet Steve on his own again, explore more of whatever it is between them. 

“What,” Steve says as he picks up his phone, eyes on the screen. “Sorry, I should grab this.” 

“No problem,” Buck says, but Steve’s already typing on his phone. It kind of feels like a problem. 

“Sorry,” Steve says, looking up again after a second of texting. “Was, uh, just my roommate.” 

“Sure,” Buck says, but the moment’s gone. Steve settles the bill over Buck’s frankly empty protests, and they’re heading out together when Buck remembers that Steve doesn’t have a roommate. 

Steve slows to a stop just outside the bar, hands in his pockets with a carefully casual look on his face. 

“So,” he says, kind of slow. 

Buck shakes his head. He doesn’t want to hear what else Steve wants to lie to him about. He tells Steve  _ see you later,  _ walking off before Steve can leave him first. 


	4. Chapter 4

There’s no word from Steve for two days, until Buck gets a text in the middle of loading in cabinets for the basement unit. He doesn’t look at his phone then, waiting until there’s a spare moment in the afternoon. Buck steps away from the other crew members crowding around one guy’s phone to check his own. 

Steve, wondering if he wants to catch the game. 

Buck pulls a face, shoving his phone back into his pocket. The Mets played at 1:20 or something stupid, so it’s nearly over at this point. 

He figures Steve will get take the hint when he doesn’t respond, but then he has four messages waiting when he comes back to the house after quitting time. 

_ Okay, maybe you’re now a Yankees fan  _

_ Want to watch them lose to the Indians?  _

_ It doesn’t have to be baseball. We can do something else too? If you want _

_ I’ve been reminded you have an actual job to do, so let me know when you get a chance? _

Buck really should turn the phone off. It’s dangerous to have it on, an open invitation if someone wants to track him down. Instead, he goes to plug it in to charge. 

“What the fuck am I even doing,” Buck asks his phone, setting it down beside the space he’s staked out for tonight. It’s too early but he lays down anyway, staring at the dark ceiling in hopes it’ll tell him what to do. 

It doesn’t. 

He picks up the phone again, staring at the chain of messages. He doesn’t know what to say, so he tosses the phone down again. 

It’s not that he’s pissed that Steve lied. They barely know each other, and Steve definitely doesn’t owe him anything. If anything, Buck’s pissed at himself, for believing that he could just start over and not hate every part of it. 

Buck presses his fingers against the pulse point in his wrist to try and slow his thoughts down. 

Eventually, he sleeps. 

He’s tired and irritated the next morning, hauling boxes of hardwood flooring to the top level. With everyone back on shift, he’s back at the bottom of the ladder.

It leaves him too much time to think about the job, about his life, about Steve. The phone’s jammed into the bottom of his bag, but he still thinks he can hear it buzz with a new message. 

Gritting his teeth, he turns away to pick up couple more boxes and heads back up. It’s slow going, someone walking in front of him and ignoring Buck’s muttered fuck as he has to readjust his grip.

He’s alone on the way back down, no one to notice that he takes a break to work out the soreness in his hands and arms. There are three crew guys working in the kitchen but they don’t even spare him a glance. 

They’re busy complaining about someone. Buck draws back onto the stairs to stay out of sight on the open-concept main floor. 

“Apparently the boss owed someone a favour, so we’re stuck dealing with him,” one says. “Barely qualified to carry shit around.” 

“I say he owes us for putting up with this bullshit,” another says, then they all laugh. 

They’re talking about him, Buck realizes with a start. It’s all true, he’s here as a favour and barely able to do the work, but it still makes something inside him twist. 

He takes one step down before stopping himself. There’s nothing he can do, as much as he hates being useless. This is exactly what he wanted. 

Buck slinks over to the pile of boxes in what will be the living room, knowing it’s a mistake to look over at the three guys but doing it anyway. 

There’s one watching, a big guy but careless with his limbs. He wouldn’t last long in a fight, but doesn’t look away when he sees Buck standing at the front of the house. 

Buck takes a threatening step forward and the guy doesn’t even flinch, just turns away like Buck’s nothing to be afraid of. 

It makes the twist inside him turn into anger, the urge to do some damage buzzing beneath his skin. There’s a crowbar within a step that’d do, a hammer in another guy’s tool belt. The crew wouldn’t react right away, so he’d get in a few good swings before he’d have to start— 

Buck turns away and heads back down the stairs, out of the house and onto the street. He breathes out, long and slow, but the violence doesn’t go very far, settling into the curl of his fists at his sides. 

It’s too early to call it a lunch break but he walks so he doesn’t twist up into something worse. This is what he’d wanted, a quiet job in a city he’d disappear in, hiding who he is. Simmering until the day he finally cracks. 

The tension bleeds out with each footstep, and his shoulder relax by the time he makes it a block away. There’s a promising enough spot to get a coffee, so he crosses the street to indulge. 

The place is clean but worn, with a pathway worn into the painted floor. The few chairs and tables already occupied, but the line is short. It’s obviously a favourite of locals. Buck snorts softly. He should think this way, but he can’t see this as something he looks forward to for the rest of his life. 

Someone bumps him from behind, a bare nudge that shouldn’t pull his anger back to the surface. But it does, enough that he turns to—

It’s Steve grinning behind him, still pushing his elbow into the small of his back. “Thought that was you coming in here.” 

“Hey,” Buck says, forcing his feelings back for a smile. He must not get there, not completely, because Steve steps back and frowns. 

“Everything ok?”

“Yeah,” Buck says, voice casual only from plenty of effort. He rolls his shoulders back and drops as much of the aggression and readiness out of his body as he can. “Just long days at work, you know how it is.” 

“Sure,” Steve says. He studies Buck’s face for a minute, then knocks his elbow into Buck’s again. “You feel like letting me buy you a coffee?” 

“Yeah, alright,” Buck says, against his instincts. It’ll just take time for Steve to figure out he’s not worth it, that everything interesting about him belongs to his past. The more often they hang out, the sooner that day will come. 

Steve pays for them both, and Buck lets him take the lead on the way out. He waits for Buck to start walking before he falls in beside, looking perfectly content to match Buck’s pace. 

Buck isn’t entirely sure what they’re doing here. 

“So,” he says, wanting to break the silence. Steve turns to him quickly, like maybe he was waiting for the same thing. “You were watching for me?” 

“I was in the neighbourhood,” Steve hedges with a smile. He’s making a show of being casual, but Buck doesn’t buy it for a second. “Thought it might be you...and then possibly followed you for a bit.”

Buck frowns, he hadn’t even noticed anyone trailing him. It’s a little unsettling. “Should I be flattered?”

“Depends on how much fun you had watching baseball, I guess.” Steve shrugs one shoulder, lifting the cup in his other hand to take a drink. 

“Apparently you watched me more than baseball, if you picked me out of a crowd.” 

Steve laughs, an honest sound that Buck thinks he could get used to. “Sorry, it’s habit.” 

“Overflow from the job?” Buck asks. It’s where his own knowledge of the shape of Steve’s shoulders and how he walks comes from, not that he’ll say that. Maybe part physical attraction, if he ever lets himself relax enough to admit it. 

“Kind of,” Steve says vaguely. “I’m supposed to be on my own two feet here—” here he waves at the neighbourhood as a whole “—but instead I’m just constantly on guard.”

“You’re not alone in that,” Buck says, speaking before he has a chance to think about it. It could reveal more than he wants. 

“Yeah, I can tell,” Steve says. He shrugs, letting one of his shoulders bump into Buck’s. “You’ve got this air about you. It’s familiar.” 

Buck tucks his chin down, wondering if those roots are why they’ve been drawn together. “It’s hard to leave it behind.” 

“I’m not trying to,” Steve says, misunderstanding. “It’s a part of me, I think.” 

Shrugging, Buck thinks he’d have to say the same. He doesn’t say it out loud, though, afraid of what Steve would say if Buck admitted that his criminal past isn’t so far behind him. 

“If you want,” Steve starts out hesitantly, “a friend of mine might know of some way you could use what you know.”

“About sports,” Buck says, half clarification and half just so Steve can hear how ridiculous it is. 

“It’s a wide range of consultancy,” Steve says. “Or so I’ve heard.”

“I’m alright,” Buck says lightly. It’s a lie. He wants to beg Steve for anything else, demand he go to a shooting range to show him what he can do. Anything but hauling boxes around for people who don’t even care if he shows up. 

The other part of him—the old part—doesn’t like the idea that Steve’s hero complex looks at him like someone that needs rescuing. Besides, Buck would never pass the necessary screening. 

“If you say so,” Steve says. “But if you change your mind, I know a few people.”

“Okay,” Buck says and starts walking again. Steve’s slow, almost reluctant, but they’re close enough to the job site that it doesn’t matter. 

“Nat—my friend’s making me do this museum thing,” Steve says, still dragging his heels. “This special exhibition’s opening, and a friend of mine is involved. You willing to come along, make me feel a little normal?”

“A museum,” Buck repeats. It’s not awful sounding, just not what he'd guess what Steve would be into. 

“Casual, from what I understand.” Steve looks at Buck, long enough that Buck gets uncomfortable. 

He shifts a little on the sidewalk, putting a tree at his back since Steve’s standing in front of a storefront. “I’d say yes, but I literally have no clothes for something like that.” 

“You could borrow something, I’m sure we can make it work.” Steve smiles, bumping his shoulder into Buck’s. “If you want to, that is.”

“Yeah, alright,” Buck says. There’s a second where he’s going to say no, that dressing up isn’t part of Buck’s character, but fuck it. He’s tired of jeans and flannel.

“Okay, so this could, oh, no,” Steve says, handing his coffee to Buck when his phone goes off. 

Buck stands there with his hands full, watching Steve dig out his phone and answer it. His phone looks fancy even in its durable case, and definitely traceable. 

“I have to go, I’m sorry,” Steve says, after he hangs up. He does look sorry, more than Buck would have thought. 

“Sure,” Buck says. He can tell Steve’s gearing up for action, the set of his shoulders changed and holding his weight forward. He tries not to be jealous. 

“It’s one of those things,” Steve says.

“No, I get it,” Buck says, shrugging one shoulder. “It’s fine. You go.”

Steve looks like he wants to say more, but leans in to kiss Buck on the cheek before taking off in a jog, the opposite way they were walking. There’s no good reason for Buck to follow, not the least that he’s expected back at work. 

Buck starts walking again and doesn’t think about where Steve’s going, forces himself to focus on the coffees he still has in each hand. He feels more exposed than usual, neck crawling with the weight of too many eyes. It’s as imaginary as it has been for the last few weeks, but it doesn’t stop him from feeling it. 

When he goes back to the house work is the same as it was before, which means Buck’s aware he’s terrible at it and so is everyone else. He gets sent to clean up the top floor and doesn’t come back down until nearly everyone else is gone. 

Even Garcia’s cheerful goodnight at the end of the day isn’t enough to shake Buck out of his mood. He wanders as far as the canal, alone with the oily water. What he wouldn’t give for an actual beach. 

It’s late when he returns, pulling out his phone in the safety of the basement to see if there’s anything from Steve. There isn’t, but he has a text from an unknown number. 

_ Hey!! I’m in Brooklyn again, we should hook up?? _

Buck frowns, and carefully types a message back.  _ sorry, i think you have the wrong number _

He gets back  _ sorry!  _ but his heart is going too fast to reply. There’s only one other person who’d contact him at this number, one who knew what he was afraid of catching up to him. 

Sighing, he pops the battery out of his phone and holds one piece in each hand, feeling the weight of each. Freedom wasn’t long enough. 


	5. Chapter 5

Nothing’s going to happen during the day, so Buck took a chance on another night at the rowhouse. He’s still alive when he wakes up, so it pays off. It’s almost too bad he won’t find out what colour they decide to paint the master suite or how the main floor looks with hardwood all the way along.

Then again, Buck thinks, stretching in the tiny space he’s claimed in the basement bathroom, he gets to hit the reset button. Maybe in the next place he can find somewhere he doesn’t get shit on just for existing. Could be fine after all.

He must fall asleep again, waking up to noise outside. He shoves his things into his bag, scaling the back fence and scrambling to come around the front to return the key.

It’s too late when he gets there, Garcia already getting out of the van out front. There’s no parking, so Proctor keeps driving for a parking spot.

“Hey, man, how’s it going,” Garcia asks, setting his lunch pail down on the ground to step up to the key box.

“Fine,” Buck says, clenching his fist around the key until it digs sharply into his hand. “You?”

“Yeah, I’m alright,” Garcia says. He crouches down a bit to fiddle with the box, big hands clumsy on the buttons. Once he flips it open Buck steps sideways into him, dropping the key in the same motion.

“Shit, sorry,” Buck says, moving back and hitting the heel of his boot against Garcia’s lunch pail with a clang.

“You drunk?” Garcia asks. He turns and comes too close, frowning when he doesn’t smell anything on Buck’s breath. “You’ve been wearing the same clothes for the past three days.”

“Just tired,” Buck says.

“You’re early, go get a coffee, shake it off,” Garcia says with some genuine concern. “Don’t let Proctor see you like this.”

“Okay,” Buck says and goes to follow Garcia’s orders. He’ll miss Garcia when he leaves, even if he hated the work. Shaking that thought off, Buck steps into the nearest place, a deli with breakfast written on the chalkboard out front.

He skips coffee for a bagel with tomato and cheese, an expensive indulgence that makes his mouth water when he unwraps it. It’s been too long since he ate something for flavour over fuel. He carries that thought back to the job site, promising to do better next time.

There’s going to be a next time, one where he doesn’t try to disappear. Maybe he’ll get a job at a sporting goods store next time. He could do retail, maybe, sell the baseball bats the pros use. Could hate that less.

Garcia doesn’t say anything more when Buck gets back, just tells Buck to start bringing in the hardwood for the main level. It’s a good day’s work for his preoccupied mind. He moves from van to house without dwelling too much on how exposed he is.

It’s good timing. When the house’s done, he’ll be on the street again. He’s not ready for an abrupt temperature change. Part of him remembers shitty New York winters, and he doesn’t look forward to reliving it. He’ll try the south, maybe southwest. Make new goals, since whatever new start this was supposed to be didn’t happen.

After the crew clears out for the night, Buck comes back to sit cross legged in the middle of the living room floor. With drywall and paint, it looks a lot different from when he started, even if it’s nowhere near done. The light coming in from the street side windows lays in stripes over the waiting boxes of hardwood in front of him.

He’s put his phone back together, but he still doesn’t know what to say to Steve. He should say something, at least so Steve doesn’t try looking for him. He owes him that—

The door opens then, startling him into dropping the phone. He scrambles into a crouch but doesn’t have more time than that, frozen in the middle of the empty living room and right in the open—

“Buck,” Steve says, frozen in the doorway. “What, ah, what?”

“Steve,” Buck says, shifting to his feet.

“Why are you in my—this house,” Steve says, letting the door drift shut behind him.

Buck blinks, slotting together what he knows of the company and its mysterious client. It fits. “This is your house.”

“My friend bought it,” Steve says. “Well, his company did. He’s doing the renovations. He wants to give it to me.”

“I work for the renovators,” Buck says with a wave of his hand to the tool boxes stacked near the stairs. “I carry their shit around.”

“Oh,” Steve says. “And why are you sitting here in the dark? They told me I could come in to check it out now that the power’s on.”

Buck closes his mouth on the truth that he’s been squatting here, and shrugs. “Had some work to do.”

Steve doesn’t buy it, giving him a look that makes Buck want to tell the truth. He pushes that down. Having Steve angry with him would keep him from looking for him.

“Just, go on,” Steve says, stepping away from the door. “If you’re not going to trust me enough to say what’s going on, just go.”

Buck nods once, leaning forward to grab his knapsack. He can see the moment Steve puts it together, the small bag of stuff with Buck still in the same shirt from a few days ago. His face softens, relaxing the hard line of his jaw.

The pity makes Buck want to—but he just swings his backpack on and goes to move past him.

Out the front window, a flash of movement catches his eye. Something—someone shifting behind one of the cars parked on the street.

He drops into a crouch, out of the street’s line of sight.

“What are you doing,” Steve says flatly, shifting his weight to the balls of his feet. He’s still standing in full view of the window. Probably safe, probably not the target, but Buck can’t be sure.

Buck chews on the inside of his cheek, debating what to tell him. He has to leave, regardless of whether he survives this moment. But part of him isn’t ready to lose Steve to the truth yet.

“There’s someone outside,” Buck says finally, keeping his voice down.

“What,” Steve says, instantly falling into a crouch beside him. His response is immediate, instincts incredible.

Buck shakes his head, shifting closer to the stairs to protect his right side. He’s not as familiar with where things are on this level, but going to higher ground would be a mistake.

Then a noise outside, the single sharp bark of a dog. In itself, nothing, but he and Steve both stiffen in one motion.

“Go to the basement,” Buck says. If he moves to the back of the rowhouse he’ll have access to the tools but the danger of more windows. It’s worth it over being defenceless here. “There’s the exit out the back. Go.”

“The basement,” Steve says blankly, then shakes his head. “What, the garden apartment?”

Buck stares at him for a second, then plans a route across the open concept space that isn’t too exposed. “Is that downstairs?”

“As in it goes to the garden—yes it’s downstairs,” Steve hisses.

“Then yeah, go there and leave. The fence out back is sturdy enough to jump.”

“I’m not going to ask how you know that,” Steve says, shuffling a step closer to speak directly at Buck’s shoulder. “And I’m not leaving you here. If that guy followed me here, it’s not to say he’s returning my wallet.”

“He’s not following _you,”_ Buck says. He sighs. If Steve won’t leave, won’t go somewhere safe, Buck’s going to have to tell the truth and ruin whatever trust they still have.

“How do you know that,” Steve asks, quieting when they hear a car door slam right outside the front windows.

Buck just looks at him steadily, then nods his head to the back of the house.

They creep their way back together, Steve looking over his shoulder to the front like he can hear something coming.

Nothing happens before they put the oversized kitchen island at their back, settling in with a couple inches of oak and marble between them and the door.

Buck drags a toolbox closer with one foot, not looking at Steve. There isn’t much light even with the wall of windows, so he pops open the lid and looks through it by feel.

“You gonna tell me what’s going on,” Steve says, watching Buck pull out a hammer, a screwdriver, a box cutter.

“I’m pretty sure that guy is out there to kill me,” Buck says, lining up his finds between them. He doesn’t look up at Steve but he can feel Steve’s eyes on the top of his head. “I’d rather he didn’t.”

“Kill you,” Steve says, then hushes when they hear movement at the front, the door opening and closing.

Buck looks over—Steve’s staring right at him, tense but clearly taking his lead. It’s a good sign, except for how some baby assassin is walking in the front door and Steve hasn’t left for safety. He’s the unknown here, military trained and capable, but Buck isn’t sure how he’ll respond to the dirty fight that’s sure to follow.

“Why,” Steve says, leaning to put his weight on the elbow resting between them. He’s tucked his long legs in like he’s done this kind of thing before.

Picking up the hammer, Buck wonders whether to hand it to Steve. He doesn’t seem the type to know how to use it, and Buck needs all the weaponry he can get.

“What are you planning,” Steve asks quietly, face tilted right in towards Buck’s. It’s almost romantic, enough that Buck feels himself lean towards him in answer.

“You should run like hell,” Buck says to Steve’s mouth, seconds before he springs up and launches himself over the granite top of the island.

He catches the guy by surprise, gun still down at his side. Buck buries the claw of the hammer in the soft part of the guy’s neck and pulls—it isn’t pretty, red everywhere, the guy startlingly quiet.

He’s still fighting, pushes his weight into Buck to try and knock him off balance. Buck sets his weight into his heels to brace himself, hands around the guy’s wrists.

The guy tries to raise the gun, struggling without the strength on that side. Buck isn’t concerned with that yet, letting go with one hand to dig the screwdriver out of his pocket to try for the carotid.

He turns his face away when he connects, uses his free hand to lift the pistol. The guy drops like a sack of grout, hard to the floor. He’s alive, but not for long.

Buck turns back to Steve and raises the gun.

“Bucky,” Steve says, lifting his hands between them like he can hold him off.

Ignoring him, Buck shoots twice, shattering the glass window with dull thwips that take care of the two men coming over the deck.

Steve covers the back of his head to protect it from shards of glass, straightening when Buck lowers the gun.

“There’ll be more,” Buck says, slipping the safety on and tucking the gun into his waistband. He kneels down to retrieve the hand tools. “They think I’m run to ground here.”

“You’ve been planning this,” Steve says, stepping back from the island to keep an eye on Buck, wary.

“No,” Buck says. He wipes the head of the hammer on the dead guy’s shirt with little success. “I was leaving. Didn’t think they were that close yet.”

“Ah,” Steve says. He looks back at the shattered glass that used to be the back windows. “Were you going to tell me you were on the run?”

“I am not a good person,” Buck tells him instead, like he needs more proof when there are three bodies dying around their feet.

Steve snorts. “I did know bookmaking was illegal, even before we met.”

Buck shakes his head, reaching up to push his hair out of his face, wet with blood. “That’s not the only thing I did. Do.”

“Buck. Bucky. You can trust me.” Steve looks at him steadily, like he wants to say it doesn’t matter.

The worst part is Buck really wants to hear it. “I’m a killer,” Buck says. “I’m no good for you—you should go before more come.”

“You have no idea who I am, do you,” Steve says, folding his arms over his chest. He’s posing, obviously, even if Buck couldn’t guess why.

Buck frowns. “Steve from Brooklyn?”

Steve laughs under his breath. “Also known as Captain America. You know, in the news.”

“That propaganda from the 40s, the superhero?”

Steve spreads his hands, a self-deprecating look on his face.

“Oh,” Buck says. He can see it now, the set to Steve’s shoulders patriotic, his jawline fearless. “So you didn’t need me to protect you.”

“Not really,” Steve says.

Buck opens his mouth to say something, but there’s a faint noise from the floor upstairs.

They both go silent, Buck sliding the gun out. Steve’s still distressingly unarmed, but Buck can’t remember whether superheroes go for guns or not.

Steve takes the lead before Buck can, keeping his back to the wall as they climb the stairs. The hallway’s clear, but the doors are shut. The left door dead ends to the linen closet, the right going to the master suite.

Buck lets Steve take the left while he goes right into the cluster of rooms. The first is still marked with the patches of paint samples, four dark marks against the dim light from the street.

The compressor sits next to the stack of hardwood boxes, but the hose for the gun is drawn away to the right, giving away where this next goon went.

Rolling his eyes, Buck pulls the screwdriver out of his pocket and drops it to give away his position.

Steve’s in the room before the doorway opens to reveal a figure clad in black, using both hands to aim the nail gun.

“You didn’t think you’d get away with it, did you?” The guy asks. “Once you’re in, you’re in.”

Steve looks at Buck, who shrugs. The guy’s no threat. Beyond a poor choice of weapon, only an amateur tries to make a hit personal.

“Go for it,” Buck says, ignoring Steve’s attempt to draw him back. He steps into the open space of the bedroom. It really does have a nice view of the street.

The guy squeezes the trigger, startled when the air compressor kicks on to power the stupid thing. He looks a little disappointed when nothing happens.

“Safety,” Buck tells him, pulls out his own gun to make the guy freeze.

“That looked more intense than it was,” Steve says.

“Nails lose force unless you’re right under the tip anyway,” Buck says. He keeps his eye on the guy, whose arms are shaking under the weight of the gun. “You want that I don’t shoot him in your bedroom?”

“Not my bedroom,” Steve cuts back with, then thinks about it. “Oh, yeah, right. This is the bedroom.”

“This cutesy shit is fucked up,” the guy says from the doorway, dropping the nail gun with a clatter and pulling his actual gun out on Steve.

Buck blinks and shoots him in the shoulder and the chest, disappointed when the bullets pass through and into the wall behind. He’s out of practice.

“Hey,” Steve says, turning to Buck when the goon staggers back and then to the floor.

“You didn’t exactly say not to,” Buck says. He steps closer to the guy, who’s dropped his gun to press his hand against the wound. Buck kicks the gun away and pulls the hammer out of his belt. “What is this, amateur hour?”

“Hey,” Steve says again. “I think you got him.”

“He was aiming for you,” Buck says, but puts the hammer back.

“He didn’t get me,” Steve says, stepping into the side of Buck’s vision. “I’m alright.”

“Yeah, I know,” Buck says. He turns away from the guy bleeding into the floor, tracks Steve coming closer.

“You protected me,” Steve says like that somehow makes Buck a good person.

It was completely selfish. Buck doesn’t want anything to happen to Steve, but wouldn’t give a shit if it was someone else. He’s not sure how to explain that to Steve.

Their life together doesn’t make sense anyway, him going out killing people while Steve tries to save them. Couldn’t even happen, not while he’s killed four people inside fifteen minutes.

Then again, this is the most like his old self Buck’s been and if anything, Steve’s more interested, not less. “I’m the target, not you,” Buck says. “He was sloppy.”

“You’re not as bad as you think,” Steve says.

“Maybe not, but I’m not as good as you think either.” Buck shrugs, then lowers the gun and shoots the goon in the head.

“I wish you hadn’t killed him,” Steve says. He isn’t upset exactly, just rueful. “We could have gotten information out of him.”

“I don’t think he’d say anything I didn't already know,” Buck says. “They weren’t here to bring me back.”

“Is that what you want?” Steve asks, checking the bathroom for stragglers and walking around the perimeter of the room. He’s intent, tension in his hips but shoulders loose. He cares, maybe more than he’s trying to broadcast. “To go back?”

Buck shifts to keep the body behind him, eyes on Steve’s face.

Looking at him, Steve takes in the blood, the body. It doesn’t phase him. “Or stay on the run from these assholes, pretending you’re content to pick up nails for a living?”

“You want me to lie?” Buck asks, slipping the safety on and tucking the gun into his waistband.

“No,” Steve says. “I want you to take the third option.”

“And what’s that?”

Steve ducks his head, buying time to word it, then looks up with new resolve. “I can help you. No strings. Just a second chance. Or I look away and you can keep on running.”

Buck pauses, one hand on the head of the hammer. He taps it twice, considering, then nods.

“Okay,” Steve says. He breathes out, long and slow, and then shifts into action. He pats the body down for identification, removes the unused guns strapped to his chest and leg, and then signals for Buck to follow him back downstairs.

There, he makes Buck leave the tools and the gun in the wreck of the kitchen as he does the same to the bodies there.

Steve gives Buck his hat and jacket to put on, wrapping the guns in plastic sheeting and storing them inside the island.

Buck watches it all in silence. He can see how he’d thought Steve was a consultant, but now he can see he’s so much more.

“I’ll call someone to look after this, after we go,” Steve says, tossing Buck his pack. “But we should move now.”

They walk out the front like they own the place, Buck wiping his face as they head down the steps. It’s dark outside, but the sidewalk’s light enough that Buck’s sure someone will notice the mess.

“You’re fine,” Steve tells him, taking the side closest to the road as he heads to his apartment.

He steps in front whenever someone’s coming, pulling Buck in close and curling around him when they cross the street. It’s comfortable, and Buck stops halfway through telling himself not to get used to it because maybe he can.

Steve leads to the building Buck already knows he lives in. On the third floor, Steve’s apartment is cozy but old fashioned, reproduction furniture with rough-looking fabrics and tasteful old photos hanging on the wall. Nothing in there looks like it was made past 1945.

Buck would have known something was up the first time he set foot in here, and says as much to Steve.

“Yeah, I know,” Steve says, moving to set his phone down on the kitchen table. “That’s why I was okay with Tony—my friend with the rowhouse. I don’t want to live in a time capsule.”

“Why is it even like this,” Buck says, picking up one of Steve’s books and flipping through it. He winces at the musty smell and sneezes.

“Supposed to help me adjust, I guess,” Steve says, and opens one of the doors to show an adequate if vintage bathroom.

“What, by reminding you of what’s gone?” Buck says, and shoves the book back on the shelf with a little more force than necessary.

Steve just smiles tightly, and tells him to shower.

Buck steps into the bathroom and gets into Steve’s shower. It’s been so long that he’s had a chance to get actually clean, even longer to let his guard down. He enjoys both, staying in long after the water’s run clear.

The bathroom’s steamy and hot when he finally steps out, dripping on the bundle of old clothes he doesn’t want to put back on. Steve must have had the same thought, because he set a neat stack of clean clothes with a towel by the door.

They must be his friend’s clothes, Buck figures as he gets dressed, since he doesn’t swim in extra material. He runs a hand down his front to smooth the material out. The shirt fits nice, snug, more like he used to prefer, even if the colour was never a choice then.

He uses the towel to wipe the mirror free from steam, stopping short at his reflection. He doesn’t recognize himself, face thinner than it ever was and deep shadows under his eyes. The beard’s okay at least, even if his hair’s awful.

Buck frowns at himself, lifting a hand to pull at the hair on his face and then on his head. It’s not him, and if he doesn’t have to look like this anymore he doesn’t want to.

There’s an electric razor charging beside the sink, and Buck picks it up without thinking on it. He makes short work of the beard, then tilts his head to the side and tackles that too. He leaves the top longer because he thinks it might look good.

It does, he thinks as he scrapes the hair out of the sink and into the garbage bag with his old clothes. Like he didn’t look before, and maybe that’s the point. Buck 2.0, or whatever it was that Steve called him. Bucky, like he was a child.

Buck looks at himself in the mirror again, and shrugs. He could work with that.

He leaves the bathroom barefoot, finding Steve sitting in the living room. “Thanks,” Buck says.

“You’re welcome,” Steve says, then looks over at him and hesitates. He looks unsure for the first time, taking in the hair, the clothes, Buck for the first time as he’d like to be.

“Do you want me to go,” Buck says, even as Steve’s blurting out a question.

“Is Buck even your real name?”

Buck takes a step back, looking at Steve for a second and then scanning some of the old photos on the wall. “My sister called me that when I was a kid,” Buck says. “But no, it wasn’t.”

Steve swallows, still not looking at him. “Was any of it real?”

Buck is silent, thinking, and then comes to sit down on the floor in front of Steve’s couch. “There were parts I hated, then and now. The parts where I wasn’t myself. You weren’t part of that.”

“Yeah,” Steve says, half hearted, but there’s a lightness in his shoulders that wasn’t there before.

“How did you not know I was awful at being normal,” Buck says.

“What,” Steve says. He looks confused at the sudden change in subject.

“I missed all of you being a superhero,” Buck says, waving at Steve from head to knee. “But you missed me too.”

“People are so different now, I thought it was that,” Steve says. “Instead you turned out to be—”

“More than that?”

“Well,” Steve says, and flushes.

Buck opens his mouth to press, to ask for more, but Steve shifts forward, suddenly on the edge of the couch with his hand on Buck’s face, gentle but firm.

“Are you going to stay?”

“I read something,” Buck says, leaning into the warmth of Steve’s palm. “About this woman who gave herself up to be free, but it was just another cage.”

“She made the choice to leave that too,” Steve says, intent on Buck’s face. “Use what she can do for better, not worse. You have the same choice, use what you know to stop the worst stuff from happening.”

“And if I choose wrong?” Buck asks, Steve’s hand still on his cheek, fingers curling around his ear, warm against the shorn side of his head.

“I’ve chosen wrong. You just gotta keep fighting for good,” Steve says. He curls his thumb over Buck’s cheek and takes his hand back. “Might need to stop with the hammers, though. Or you can walk away, try to start over again. It’s your choice.”

Buck sits back, curling his hands into his lap. He breathes out slow, watching Steve watch him, and makes a decision.

He finally feels like himself.

 

####  **Epilogue**

_Three months later_

If Bucky had known he’d end up here, in the middle of a fucking Target, he wouldn’t have said yes to Steve back then. 

No, that’s a lie, he thinks, wincing as he sits up in the middle of crumpled shelving from a shit landing. He would’ve made the exact same choices. He might have just thought about it more, maybe put some conditions in.  

“—you there,” he hears from somewhere near his feet, where his radio must have landed. He pulls it out, slides it back onto his ear. 

“Yes,” he says, kicking a shelf support off his boot to free himself. 

“You dropped like a stone,” Steve says. He’s with the first strike team in the target building, barely out of breath despite the fighting Bucky knows is happening. 

“Yeah, well,” Bucky says, and rolls off the shelf into the aisle. The store’s quiet, but the back of his neck is prickling with anticipation. “Wasn’t on purpose. Someone let go.”

Steve laughs softly, then grunts as he probably goes to beat the shit out of someone. Buck’s a little jealous. 

“It looked great,” Sam cuts in, from wherever he is in the sky. “Also, stop flirting on the comms.” 

Bucky ignores him, ignores whatever Steve says to him, and drops into a crouch in the aisle. “We sure this is clear?” 

“What,” Steve and Sam say, then there’s a pop and he can’t hear anything over the sudden ringing in his ears. 

It’s his comms, Bucky thinks, rubbing at his ear, but the safety lights inside the store have gone out too. He tugs his pistol out of its holster on his side, and tests his finger on the safety. It won’t click off, making all his firepower useless. 

“What the fuck,” he says, because he can’t think of anything that could do that. He tries it again, and it still won’t respond. 

Bucky tucks it away again, looking up to try and read the aisle signs hanging above him. He’s sitting here defenseless, but maybe he could find a section of the store with potential. Sporting goods, maybe. 

Silence, then the noise of someone running elsewhere in the store. Someones, Bucky amends when he hears it, wondering exactly how many came into the store while he was distracted by the ringing in his ears. 

It’s clearing up now, enough that he can hear Steve demanding he respond and Sam promising to—  

“I’m here,” Bucky says quietly. “But whatever that was fried my gear.” 

“It’s a prototype, it’s supposed to—”

“Don’t care, this second,” Bucky cuts in. “Because it’s worked great on all  _ my  _ hardware, but the guys coming in missed out. I’m an easy target here.” 

“Two minutes,” Steve promises with a grunt. 

Bucky opens his mouth to respond but there’s the heavy weight of a body on his back so he twists instead, dropping to his knees to send the guy over his shoulder. He scrabbles for something to incapacitate him with and ends up using the butt of his pistol for lack of anything better. 

The guy’s out so Bucky moves down the aisle, noticing the crescent of blood on his boot print too late to do anything about it. 

“Shit,” Bucky says, feeling along the shelving for something to wipe it off with. Nothing but smooth wooden handles. He’s in home improvement. Of course. 

A noise behind him, light, but not nothing. Bucky turns to find another person there, holding a weapon that looks like salad tongs. 

“Nice of you to come at me one at a time,” Bucky says, and settles into a fighting stance. Fists seems awfully old-fashioned, but a promise is a promise. 

He gets in a few good jabs, but then, so does she. The tongs don’t do much against the body armour but she’s kept to her feet. Bucky stays a healthy distance back, circling her warily as his comms crackle in his ear. 

“—don’t be stupid,” he hears Steve say, then swear under his breath. “There’s gotta be something in the hardware aisle—”

“I made someone a promise,” Bucky says, dodging another of her punches to throw one of his own, up and to the ribs. She lurches back, swears, and does something to the tongs to make them spark in the low light. 

He really hopes Steve gets here soon. 

“Oh come on,” Steve says. “You’re really going to pull that now?” 

“I keep my word,” Bucky says, until he hits the shelves behind him with a rattle. “Even when it was shortsighted, like I could really use some makeshift weapon like a hammer right now—”

“Why does it have to be—” Steve starts, then huffs out a breath. “Fine, I take it back. Use what you need, just don’t die before I get there.” 

“I won’t,” Bucky says, reaching behind his back to grab a hammer in each hand. He’ll tell Steve that it wasn’t so much a choice as necessity, that he doesn’t miss it, but that’s for later. For now, he fights. 


End file.
